Ned Quin hadn't been down in the coast country for years. Indeed,
the last time he had been in New Westminster he had gone there by
coach. Now it was a new world for him, a world of strange hurry and
excitement. B.C. was in a hurry: the people of the East were in a
hurry: the very river in the roaring Fraser Cañon seemed to run
faster. And he, of all the world, was the one thing that seemed to
go slow, he and his train. He was sober now, and in terror of what
he had done.
"By God, they'll hang me," he said. They hanged men for murder in
British Columbia, hanged them quickly, promptly, gave them a short
quick trial, and short shrift.
"I wish I was over the Line," said Ned, as he huddled in a corner
seat and nursed his chin almost on his knees. Across the Line they
didn't hang men quick, unless they stole horses and were exceedingly
bad citizens who wouldn't take a clean cut threat as a warning. "I
wish I was over the Line."
And the 49th Parallel wasn't far away. Yet to get to it wasn't easy.
He had galloped from what he believed a house of death with no money
in his pocket. He had borrowed from the skipper of the sternwheeler,
which took him from Kamloops to the Ferry, enough to pay his fare
down to Port Moody. He must go to George's to get more.
"They'll catch me," said Ned Quin, "they'll catch me: they'll hang me
by the neck. That's what they say--'by the neck till you are
dead'--I've heard Begbie say it, damn him!"
Yes, that was what Judge Begbie said to men who cut their klootchmen
to pieces with a shovel.
"I--I was drunk," said old Ned. "Poor Mary."
She had been as good a klootchman as there was in the country, sober,
clean, kind, long-suffering. He knew in his heart how much she had
endured.
"Why didn't she leave me?" he whined. Whenever the train stopped he
looked up. He saw men he knew, but no one laid his hand on his
shoulder. Few spoke to him: they said that it was as clear as mud
that he was rotten with liquor and half mad. They left him alone.
He wanted them to speak to him, for he saw Mary on the floor of his
shack. He saw the shovel.
"Pete will find her," said Ned. "He said he'd kill me if I hurt her.
He'll take her horse and ride to Kamloops and tell 'em, and they'll
telegraph and catch me, they'll catch me!"
At Port Moody he saw a sergeant of police and felt a dreadful impulse
to go up to him and have it all over at once. He stopped and reeled,
and went blind. When he saw things again the sergeant was laughing
merrily. He looked Ned's way and looked past him.
"They don't know yet," said Ned. He got a drink and took the stage
over to New Westminster. A postman with some mail-bags sat alongside
him. A postman would naturally hear anything that anyone could hear,
wouldn't he? This postman didn't speak of a murder. He told the
driver bawdy stories, and once Ned laughed.
"Good story, ain't it?" said the pleased postman.
They came to the City late, and as soon as they pulled up Ned slipped
down on the side away from the lights, and went down the middle of
the street towards the Mill. He knew that George now lived in a new
house and wondered how he should find it. He didn't like to speak to
anyone. But by the Mill he found an old Chinaman and spoke to him.
"Boss live up there," said the Chinaman. "You tee um, one plenty big
house, velly good house."
He pointed to George's house and Ned followed the path he indicated.
Ten minutes later he knocked at the door and it was opened by Sam.
But he was not let in till Sam had satisfied himself that this was
really the brother of the Boss. He went to the door of the
sitting-room, opened it just enough to put his head in, and said----
"One man, alla same beggar-man my tinkee, say he wantee see you, Sir.
My tinkee him velly dlunk. He say your blother. My tinkee t'at not
tlue."
But George ran out and found the beggar man shivering on the steps.
"Ned, why, what's brought you?"
The hall was dimly lighted and he couldn't see Ned's face. But by
his voice he knew he was in trouble. He trembled.
"George, I've--I've killed Mary," he said in a dreadful whisper,
"help me to get away."
"You--my God," said George. He took the wretched man by the sleeve.
"You've done what?"
"Killed Mary," said Ned shivering. "For God's sake help me over the
border or they'll hang me."
He broke down and wept. George stood and looked at him in the dim
light. Sam could not pass them to go back to the kitchen, and
waited. The sitting-room door was ajar. Someone inside moved.
"Who's with you?" asked Ned.
He knew nothing about Jenny. But George forgot that he knew nothing.
"Go in," he said, "it's Jenny."
He thrust Ned inside and turned to Sam.
"Sam, boy, you savvy no one has come. If anyone ask you say no one.
You savvy?"
"My savvy all light, my savvy plenty," said Sam doubtfully. "My
tinkee him your blother all light, Sir?"
"Yes," said Quin. He stood with his hand on the handle of the door
after Sam had returned to the kitchen.
"My God," said George again. He went into the room.
When Ned had gone in he failed to recognise Jenny, and thought she
was a white woman. She was nicely dressed, and now her hair was done
very neatly. Sam had taught her how to do it. When she stood up, in
surprise at the unexpected entrance of Ned, it was obvious even to
his troubled eyes that she was near to becoming a mother. She gasped
when she saw him.
"Oh, Mr. Ned," she cried. He looked dreadful: his clothes were
disordered, ragged; his grizzled beard and hair unkempt and long. He
looked sixty, though he was no more than fifty, and his eyes were
bloodshot.
"Who are you?" asked Ned sharply.
"I'm Jenny," she murmured, looking abashed and troubled.